


holy water

by debilitas



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Spoilers, Outdoor Sex, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25289035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debilitas/pseuds/debilitas
Summary: Arthur knows he and holiness are strangers, so maybe it’s some kind of blasphemy that being here with Charles feels like baptism. Not in any literal sense, of course, ‘cause eventually they will trudge out the river, back to old boots and old habits, and he’ll be the same bad man he’s always been.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 5
Kudos: 75





	holy water

**Author's Note:**

> if I write cowboy sex yes I did no I didn’t ♥️ im @gibraltane on twt

Arthur Morgan ain’t ever considered himself holy. 

No preacher man ever traced a cross on his brow, and he always figured God above ignored prayer from outlaws. ‘Cause men like him had nothing to pray for really, except maybe a low bond or bottle of whiskey.

Arthur knows he and holiness are strangers, so maybe it’s some kind of blasphemy that being here with Charles feels like baptism. Not in any literal sense, of course, ‘cause eventually they will trudge out the river, back to old boots and old habits, and he’ll be the same bad man he’s always been.

For now, though, for right this second, he’ll enjoy the rebirth while it lasts.

Like a column supports a building, Charles stands tall. Strong and unwavering as the current laps around his waist, waves try and fail to climb higher, just for the privilege to caress more skin. A fruitless effort, doomed from the start, Arthur feels for its plight.

The water preserves some of the man’s modesty, obscuring skin too private to share. Things Arthur’s gotta copy to his mind rather than paper, then bury deep as treasure. 

Way he figures it, he’ll die— sooner than later, knowing this life — and somebody will be nosy or greedy enough to rummage through a bloodstained satchel. Find his journal, bound in neglected leather, and mosey through it.

Maybe they’ll be too lazy, too busy to read it. Even the most patient of outlaws aren’t all that patient, and none will be concerned with his entries for long. 

But they’d find the wrong drawing eventually, knowing his damned luck, of a man’s naked body in a way that ain’t artistic. ‘Cause there’s nothing respectful about how he sees the expanse of Charles’ shoulders and the thick muscle underneath, a belly full of a rabbit they’d killed together. No integrity or art to be found in a man that looks at another the way he does.

Then even an illiterate outlaw would know he was sick. Probably sneer at him before leaving him be, leaving him to decay like a town consumed by the plague.

So Arthur stares, ‘cause that’s all a feller like him can do. Because his mind’s the only thing he’s got that can’t be robbed. It’s a safe that can’t be cracked, protecting all the things he’s never said, wasn’t supposed to see, and damn near everything involving Charles.

No lawman or otherwise can ever take the feel of a broad hand clasping his arm for the first time, of hushed whispers ‘round a dying fire. Of secondhand smoke clouding his lungs and mind, far too sweet to be suffocation.

Nor can they take the look Charles throws over his shoulder, a meeting of eyes, and a silent agreement. _I know you’re watching_ , his eyes say, incandescent in the afternoon sun. A good hunter knows when he’s being tracked. 

Then it’s over, fast as a summer storm, and Charles’ gaze turns to the blade held in his hand, still specked by the dirt he’d forced from his nail beds. With a smooth move of his wrist it's thrown back to shore, nestling between silt and stone.

Looking like a model posing for a portrait, he tucks stray strands of dark hair behind both ears. A reminder— the most subtle of signals, but Arthur knows it well. Though its meaning changes each time, the intent stays clear.

_Follow me_ , it said that very first time, when he led Arthur into the woods. Away from prying eyes, from the men they were ‘sposed to be. 

“You’d really do it out here, huh?” He drawls, already trudging through the water despite himself. “Kinda bold, ain’t it?”

“Let the whole world watch,” is Charles’ reply. “I don’t care who sees.”

Judging by the current environment, the whole world must be one river and a couple of deer. Maybe that’s what the world was meant to be, before Adam. Just some overgrown weeds and animals that weren’t meant to be hunted by anything other than themselves.

Maybe— just maybe, in that kind of world, two fellers could do this sort of thing without guilt.

Arthur bows his head, used to hiding shame behind the brim of a hat. A hat that might as well be miles away, resting on the shore by Charles’ knife. What he wears when he kills men, for money or just ‘cause they needed killing, a weapon of a different kind. 

Here, he’s got no place to hide. Just him, holy water, and a whole heap of temptation. 

Same as that night in the forest outside camp, Charles tries to introduce their lips. And just like that first time, Arthur’s cowardice wins the fight.

“Men don’t kiss,” he says, with a slow turn of his head. He doesn’t have to look to know Charles’ eyes are locked on him.

He releases a sharp exhale, right through his nose. A sound that sits somewhere between being annoyed and bemused. Arthur finds the man rarely makes it toward anymore else. Ain’t quite sure if that’s a good thing.

“But they can do everything else?”

Everything else— that what he calls it? Funny thing to call a hand on the cock while sneaking glances toward the tree line to be sure they weren’t followed. 

“Guess you got a point there,” Arthur pauses, to chew on the words. “Still don’t sound right; fellers kissing.”

He ain’t ever known what to call it. Whatever it is that made him like men the way he likes a pretty lady, made him walk into those woods, trudge into this river. 

Sex? No, it can’t be that. Sex is little more than a transaction for men like him, too old to change and too mean to care. Even when money ain’t involved it feels the same, just a couple of people pretending he ain’t a bad man for a moment’s worth of pleasure. 

The thing with Charles is that he already knows Arthur’s bad. Hell, he is too, especially in the eyes of the law. Bad men that do bad things together don’t get that same privilege of ignoring what they do. Instead it sits between them, like an untouched dinner that’s gone cold.

Any exchange between them is an agreement, but of a different kind. One of acceptance.

Arthur decides he’s only half right. _Good_ men don't kiss men. ‘Cause they’re far too busy gunning down the ones that do. 

“Never done it,” Arthur confesses, finding Charles’ gaze when he turns back. “Like this, I mean.”

The tips of their noses brush against one another, Charles’ breath hot against his mouth when he speaks.

“It’s just like the bow. Pull back—“

Arthur sucks in a breath, fills his lungs with all they can stand.

“—And release.”

Charles doesn't kiss like a woman. There’s no hint of lipstick or perfume beneath sweat, no hesitancy at the scratch of his beard. 

Mary’s kiss was rainfall, gentle as it gave life to wherever it went, while his is a storm. Providing that same nourishment, through vastly different means. Ones that don’t make much sense at first glance. 

There’s tobacco and salt on Charles’ lips, even more on his tongue. Like biting too hard on a cigarette. Arthur can’t imagine he’s any better off, after a day's worth of shared smokes and salted meat. 

Body hot as hellfire, it’s a battle in itself to stay standing. Arthur’s knees want to give, whether it’s to drown in water or Charles he’s not entirely sure. A strong grip helps him win the war, one palm still flat against his chest, reminding him every so often to breathe. 

He can see Charles’ composure clear as day, and the cracks that are starting to show up in the foundation. Compromised by something or other, in a way he doesn’t usually allow.

_Big_ was Arthur’s first real impression of the man. Dutch brought him to camp looking like a kid with a shiny new toy, ready to boast about his every prowess. A real survivalist, he called him. Maybe the rest of ‘em could learn a thing or two.

_More than he seems_ was the second, though Arthur’s shamed to admit it took him a whole day to notice. There was confidence in Charles’ posture, sure, held by a stern gaze on a mean face. But, unlike most of Dutch’s patchwork of men, there was more going on in that head of his. 

Those eyes weren’t just intimidating— they were searching. For more than just the law or his next meal, they scanned the earth like words on a page. Looking for some kind of meaning or explanation that Arthur’s too damn dumb to hope for.

And now they’re locked on his. Stopped searching, they start to understand. Unwind the spool that is Arthur Morgan, examining the thread.

The two of ‘em stand there, still as statues for a full minute. Maybe two. Closer than friends should ever be, the hair on their chests grazing with every exhale. The taste of one another still fresh on their tongues, Arthur decides that this— whatever the hell it is, is worth a bullet between the eyes. 

They both got bounties long as the Bible. What’s another offense, really?

Only his second time having another feller’s hand ‘round his cock, and Arthur’s surprised by the familiarity of it. Too big to be a lady's or his own, with the calluses of both a farmhand and gunslinger. 

Working hands, folks called it. Not exclusive to men like them, felt on women raised on farming or used to the grip of a rifle. Arthur likes it all. 

Whether it’s in that hollow head of his or below the belt, it ain’t ever really been about men or women. He likes experience, hard workers that bear the strain of their success on their bodies.

Arthur swears he can feel every bow Charles ever used on his hand, see decades of animal bites and bullet holes that marr the flesh. He grips the bulk of the other man’s arm as he watches a firm fist pump his erection, catching glimpses of flushed skin through the river’s current.

He sensed that first time, back in those woods after a bottle of hot whiskey, that it weren’t Charles’ first time handling another feller’s desire. Wondered if they were one in the same, moseying along that unspoken line between liking what’s normal and what ain’t. Sharing space as they walked a secret path, thankful for the company. 

It’s only now, standing in water that’s becoming holy, Arthur considers the alternative. That Charles might just be walking an even more obscure trail through the brush, one that made fellers wish they were anybody else. 

Arthur used to know one of those travelers— the only one that weren’t quiet enough about it, at least. A polite feller that raised some livestock and didn’t ask too many questions when the gang sold him some stolen mares.

Arthur didn’t know for a long while. Not ‘til it got him beat.

—See, that’s what _good_ men do. Far too moral to just outright kill somebody for being different, they gotta punish instead. Dig their claws in until the bad man knows he’s bad, then can’t stand to live in his own skin.

Unlike that scrawny rancher, Charles wouldn’t lose no fight. Made himself too tough to surrender to petty convictions, leave any brawl with more than a chipped tooth. That’d keep him safe from the wrath of bad men, but not the words of good ones. 

Through the fog in his brain, through the hot permeating his whole body, Arthur has to ask himself a question. 

Is there something in Charles that hates what he’s doing? Like the guilt Arthur can’t help but feel when he watches Charles chop wood or drink from their liquor bottle real slow. Must he contemplate his very soul and safety for a taste of pleasure, with no reprieve?

Let the world watch, he’d said. Because he knew, probably before Arthur even did, that they were loyal in the way only bad men can be. Let ‘em watch, ‘cause no witness would live to repeat what they’d seen. 

It makes him hotter than it should. Makes him let out that one noise he’s been biting back real hard, giving in to something in himself he’d left to starve. Doesn’t play dumb when Charles slowly drops to his knees, knows exactly what he wants.

The river reaches broad shoulders now, small waves occasionally making their way to the column of his throat. The muscle is wet when Arthur touches it, cupping with his palm, he feels movement of a controlled swallow.

Charles nestles the same hair behind an ear again, ends of long strands soaked and clinging to his skin. Braces one hand on Arthur’s thigh, the other over dark curls at the base of his cock, and starts to take it into his mouth. Real slow, same as he drinks from expensive whiskey. Like Arthur’s sex is something meant to be savored.

The warmth ‘round him forces him into a bow, good as any penitent man. Back bent in worship— to God or Charles’ mouth he ain’t sure. It’s a wet heat, wide tongue flat against the underside, gliding along real sensitive skin.

Charles’ appreciation is quiet. He doesn’t have the reflexes of a working girl; marveling at the sight and feel of his prick ‘cause it’s their job to. No pressure to stroke Arthur’s ego or pretend what’s in his mouth is anything but average. 

What Arthur’s had, after Mary and even a bit before, was built on lies. A collection of stretched truths and diversions that made it easy to believe the woman in his lap was actually impressed by him. 

It ain’t so simple with Charles. Neither of them can lie to the other. Since they’ll be seeing each other after this, and all the days after— however many that’ll be. Charles knows of the men he’s killed, and is ready for the ones they’ll kill together. 

Acceptance. That damned word again. Something Arthur’s always craved, even if he didn’t know it, and found in another man.

The river and the lively forest that surrounds it drowns out the sounds of their exchange. Cloaks the slick noises of spit on skin and deeps grunts with water against rock and birdsong. Arthur feels like part of it, natural as grass in dirt.

Then, because the world is forever cruel to Arthur Morgan, Charles stops.

“Someone’s coming,” Charles says in a hushed tone, gaze directed northeast, toward the riverbank.

Before Arthur can get a complaint in edgewise, he’s yanked beneath the surface. Held flush to a warm chest they paddle backward, concealed by the deepest part of the river.

Distorted through the current, Arthur watches the blurred silhouette of two fellers on horseback, equipped for a day’s worth of fishing. Of course, he thinks, with plenty resentment. Outta all the rivers in the damned state these idiots had to pick this one—

Freeing himself from Charles’ grip, he stands. Naked as the day he was born, arms crossed as he speaks.

“Picked a mighty good spot, you did,” he says, choking back the chuckle threatening to bubble up from his throat. 

The fishermen right at the shore, faces twisting as they try to process the situation. Arthur knows his body ain’t the nicest to behold in the best of situations, particularly when unexpected.

“Real nice,” comes the sound of Charles’ voice behind him. Floating on his back like a man on vacation, a much better actor than Arthur ever expected.

The men exchange glances then, seeming to weigh their options before shuffling back to their horses. Not bothering to put away their poles they urge the equine forward, one of ‘em brave enough to stare as they go.

Arthur huffs at their departure, already wading back to shore and the shelter of his clothes. Charles is hard at work to wring water from his hair, doing a poor job of suppressing a self-satisfied smile.

“Don’t care who watches, he says,” Arthur mumbles to himself, loud enough to make sure Charles can catch it over the current. “Let’s get the hell outta here; enough fellers seen my unmentionables for one day.”

It’s a growl from a dog with no teeth, and they both know it. Charles exits the river without protest, quick to conceal the display of muscle and scars beneath his shirt. 

Still half erect and wholly unsatisfied, they sit uncomfortably in familiar saddles, dripping water into the dirt below. Charles riding a bit ahead of him, Arthur is free to watch the man move. Every inch of bare skin or flex of strong hands has been given a new context, one that brings back memories that make him hot beneath the collar.

Something in Arthur, probably closer to the bad part than the good, reminds him this ain’t the first time he’s sized Charles up like this. Made the slow journey back to their real lives with him. And it won’t be the last, either.


End file.
